Resting Sword
by BlackCavern
Summary: FE 1/11/OVA Time and place could kill the most experienced warrior. A sword only rests once, once it stops, it never rises again. And the most steeled person could have their life broken in half.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem**

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The night was so dark, the moon and stars were blotted out by clouds. Yet the early autumn breeze created a calming effect, the scent of apples were in the air, the farmer's harvest was just around the corner. Somewhere on the edge of the Altean forest, a hand pulled on a latch string creating a clicking sound. Two figures walked in, one turned to close the door, the other walked on in. Neither bothered to light a candle, the darkness made no dent upon their awareness. Then came the _shiiing _sound of a blade as it slid back into it's scabbard, the scabbard was then carefully placed against the wall.

"That was a long walk, how's your leg?" a female voice asked.

"Fine." came the reply, the voice was distinctive, not terribly deep but even and stoic. He sheathed two swords but placed them on a nearby table and stared at them as if wondering if it was a good idea. The female shook her head although no one could see the gesture in the darkness, "Soldiers have swarmed the streets, not Altean ones either. Look, you stay here, go to sleep. I'll see what I can find out back in town." she offered. The male kept his mouth shut, there are rewards in knowing your limits.

"Sleep well Navarre." she said before heading out again, Navarre's eyes were drawn to a large cut in her sleeve and arm. For the longest time the crimson warrior sat in the darkness, he did not worry, he never worried. Seeing as the only person he deemed worth worrying about was like he, one who lived and died by her blade. Finally he decided to break his vigil and lie down although he did not sleep for quite some time. The pain in his leg drowned out all other injuries, he was not use to serious wounds. It felt strange to be sleeping by himself after so long, well it wasn't that long considering a human's life span. Navarre was a person would could step in and out of a pace with relative ease.

After hours he finally drifted off, he slept soundly, no dreams. Somewhere in his subconcious he heard the door open and close again, some of the tension left his body.

At a time near the hour of dawn the door opened again, Navarre instantly awoke. He knew the way the door sounded when she opened it, a slow quiet movement that was hardly detected. This time the door creaked as it swung open and hit the wall. He began to get up, a lighting quick movement, he would've been on his feet already in any other day. He was surrounded by soldiers, if he leaned just a little to one side his neck would be stuck on a spear. Five soldiers drew their swords, the blades glowing in the moonlight that had freed itself from the darkness of the clouds.

All this happened in a moment, to Navarre was like a life time of horror unleashed upon him. Still gleaming like beams of light, five swords cut through the air. They sliced into him in a spray of blood, he heard a cry like an injured hawk. However he wasn't even paying attention to the red that was staining the bed and floor, his eyes were fixed ahead.

Her sword was stuck in the ground, the blade was stained with blood. Crumpled piles of armor were scattered around but now she wasn't moving. The soldiers by sheer number had gained the upper hand, she could take a breath without being impaled. The captain raised his sword over his head, it arched shining through the air. It struck, she didn't scream or gape in fear, she glared but the fire in her eyes was extinguished a moment later. Like a discarded doll she fell to the floor, without a sword, without the thing that made up her life.

"**_NO_!**"

A bolt of utter terror tore through Navarre's soul. That moment it was all gone, the blood, the soldiers, the walls, she was gone. Navarre found himself staring at a tent flap, he was sitting up on a bed roll and drenched in cold sweat. It only took him a second to realise that it was all a dream, the candle beside him hadn't even gone out. The same nightmare had been tormenting him for nights, hounding him like a relentless dog chasing a rabbit.

Ever since routing back to Altea, Prince Marth had picked a route that grazed the Goul's Teeth. The absence of the Soothsires made the Goul's 'Jaws' teethless. It was some strange miracle that the Altean forests were still intack. War called for large amounts of resources, a main one was wood.

Navarre let the cool night air calm him down, it was the beginning of autumn again. He looked to the edge of the forest, he wondered if his house was still there. It was late in the night, no one else was up, they would not break camp for several hours. Even if that were not true, it didn't matter to him. He couldn't find any upsetting nostalgia in his soul, just a simple curiosity, no matter how far he dug.

He climbed up the slope that would lead to where he once lived. Following the same path Navarre still remembered the pain that he had felt coming home that day, the blood that had soaked into his clothes. The once dark green leaves have started to turn shades of orange and yellow. In a royal courtyard you might see dried flowers but not here, real flowers, wild flowers created fruit. No humans here bothered to collect them, what was left over from the animals have started to dry up and fall to the ground. He narrowed his eyes against the night, yes, it was still there. His legs carried him automatically as if remembering the once familiar movements. His eyes focused on the intricate paintings that lined the edges of the door of his once home. She had been quite the artist.

A slight rare smile came on Navarre's face as he stared at the iron ring that served as a door handle, it was now rusted. A swordmaster noticed subtle things such as how she always pushed open the door with her fingers while he used the palm of his hand. One way or another the door swung open, the inside was exactly how he had left it. The floor was still clean, everything was where it should be. Not a speck of blood remained on the floor, you would never guess what had happened here. Perhaps he should've just broke down right there, slumped on the floor and cried. But Navarre walked on without a twinge of emotion, no sadness, no regrets, he had something to do here.

The bed room was the same too, not a thing disturbed. Having never kept flowers there were no dead plants to ruin the look. However there was one thing that was out of place, a sword was stuck in the floor boards. Not a red sword but a simple steel blade with black leather wrapped on the handle and a string of three beads hanging from it. With a sharp pull Navarre released the sword from the wood, the matching black scabbard was tossed on the floor. He picked it up and dusted it off then expertly sheathed the blade in it's rightful home. He then placed it on a nearby table, where he had put his crimson swords on the night.

He turned to leave, there was nothing else left undone. Maybe this house had turned into a whimsical place, planted in a secluded place with no residents. If anyone had entered since those years ago, the sword must've put them off.

Satisfied with what he had found he walked slowly back to camp, immersed in thought. A glow of a camp fire surprised him, a ring of soldiers have gathered by the fire. Sleeplessness was a common problem when no attack was easily forseen. Spectator training was a good way to pass the time. From the fiery red hair Navarre identified the young swordsman Radd, he was facing Roger (who obviously took off his armor to be fair), the boy was doing rather well. However moments of hesitation and contemplation outlined his lack of experience.

_"They are not good enough." Navarre said stoically._

_"Not good enough? Everyone was a novice at one point, how do you measure 'good enough'." she asked, "You don't measure by that old fairy tale do you?"_

_"The Morin tale?"_

_"Yes, every swordsman knows the tale, or did you just neglect to listen? Let me refresh your memory. A young student from long ago was learning the art of the blade from a legendary swordmaster named Morin. One day the young student heard of a wandering swordsman of some caliber near the town where he lived. The young student had some resentment towards this swordsman from his past. Taking up his sword the young student went to exact his revenge. Before he reached his destination, he was stopped by Morin. The swordmaster told his student that he was not yet good enough. Distraught and crushed the young student asked his master when he would be good enough, good enough to not shy away from opponents of high caliber. Morin answered that when his student had gained enough skill to kill his master, he would be 'good enough'."_

_"A waste of effort to kill someone you hold in esteem."_

From what he could see Radd had no mentor, perhaps he was just a person who dabbled in the art. Navarre turned away, the boy did not seem like one who would ultimately dedicate his life to the blade. Few people did, few people wanted to, few people were either lucid enough or delusional enough to do so. Another delusional thing to do was to stay up all night cheering.

The morning brought a scene of morning dew that sparkled in the sunlight. However the trampled grass and scattered debris of what once used to be towns did not help the view. Scouts have reported that a retinue of Grustian soldiers were stationed nearby. The rocky terrain would be perilous near the cliffs, difficult for mounts as loose rocks were scattered about.

In the chaos of battle Navarre caught a movement behind a shaft of rock. Breaking away from the main group he found himself on top of a crag. With a battle cry a red armored soldier ran at him. Turning idly to the side Navarre swung his sword instantly killing the Grustian soldier. Attracted to the scream of the soldier, a small group of reinforcements arrived. The first three soldiers went down as easily as their predecessor. The fourth was more of a nuisance, finally Navarre got his back to the sun blinding his opponent, that was the death sentence.

After the battle Prince Marth in his sense of chivalry, needed to see the condition of the nearby town. With the threat removed, several men, women, and children were on the streets. Although fraught with hunger and years of negect, their faces were lit up with joy.

_As a small child, Mommy would introduce you to her friends children. On many occasions these children end up being people who help you plough through life. A sword can introduce you to people to, and protect you against people. People living under the impression of righteous nobles had their own imaginations of how people were suppose to look, suppose to dress. Wearing thin cotton was not the greatest idea for even the swiftest warrior. However she had the habit of dressing casually when she had no plans for traveling far. A sky blue and white dress gave her the image of being sweet and innocent to anyone on first sight. Navarre wasn't fooled, she had a different aura about her, the difference in movement, the difference in speech. It stood out like a fire in the night for those who could identify the signs._

_It was rather annoying for someone to challenge his reluctance to fight women. She was a smart one, honor could cause you to lose your head. Her very words were: "Alright, if you will not fight me then it would make cleaving you in half all the simpler." And to her word, she attacked. In the end they ended up with sword points at each other's throats, it ended there. Continuing would have no benefits._

Suddenly Navarre's thoughts turned back to the black sword he had left behind. As much as he despised to admit it, he was reluctant to leave it behind. What if someone takes it?

No.

It will remain there.

Just as a celebrated general's headstone is his weapon, and just like the Miron tale, there was a tale to go with the sword. A swordmaster dedicates his or her life to their blade, a weapon that had so much of a type of love poured into it, cannot be reused. When someone like that dies, their sword is left where it was dropped, it will rust and eventually become part of the earth again. He cannot be sure that everyone will follow this rule, in fact he is more then certain that when he turns to dust someone will take his Kill swords.

Whatever they believed in, he and no other respectable swordsman will show that sword to battle again.

It has earned it's rest.

_"I have a bad feeling about this job." Navarre finally spoke. She raised her eyebrows half amused, half alarmed, "You're worrying? Are you feeling alright?"_

_She gripped his shoulder as if fearing he would move away and felt his forehead. He caught her hand as it retreated and pulled her so she was face to face with him. "Did you see the sky at dusk? It was painted red."_

_"So?" she asked, "You know that when the clouds are painted red it means that it won't rain the next day, that is a good thing usually."_

_"No, when red light reflects from one surface to another, it is a sign of bad luck. The light reflected off of my sword on to yours." Navarre continued._

_"Then I'll put my sword in a different spot from now on." she grinned, "Omens are often times just coincidence."_

_The smile then faded from her face and she was still for a long time, "When you live by the sword, you must be prepared for anything. But be sure of one thing, a sword is just a piece of metal, well or poorly crafted. But the sword only retires when it's wielder decides to rest."_

The swordmaster looked towards the setting sun, it was an amazing view that almost made up for the ruin in Altea. A dull ache still resounded somewhere in his soul, not enough to bother him on a daily basis, but a reminder of a fact that had shaped his life, kept the both of them and those like them alive. Kept them in their art:

The sword only rests once, when it does, it never wakes up again.

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**Author's Note:**

**Special thanks to Nameless Flame Wielder for fantastic inspiration, you're awesome!**

Have you seen the anime? If you have then you might recognize this as a rationalization for the nightmare Navarre had. It was very vague and it annoyed me for so long. I should tell you now, I am not very good at writing romance so this isn't a very fluffy fic, if you can give me any pointers, they are welcome. I didn't specify if this person was Navarre's girlfriend or wife so take whatever pleases you more. I always figured that Navarre had a friend at one point in his life, and he would go much better with someone who understood him rather then someone who blindly adored him. As for my justification for the lack of fluff, it's simple: this is Navarre. In my book having Navarre turned into a romantic type would be the same thing as Rutger getting along with Sacaen hating Bernite, a.k.a impossible. Okay, I get that people can change after trauma but he isn't angsty or delusional *cough* Orson *cough* so I figured that's just the way he always was. But hey, that's just my opinion. Like I said before, I think Navarre would go rather well with someone who understood his way of thinking and didn't question his motives, so who better then a fellow swordsman...woman?

This type of writing is slightly out of my usual pace, like I said, I'm not good at romance, even the slightest bit. So your feedback would be needed and greatly appreciated. Thanks!


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